The rain had just begun tapping gently against the window when Anna tucked her daughter into bed. The little girl, no more than nine, clutched her blanket and looked up with wide, curious eyes.
"Mama," she asked softly, "who was the first person you ever loved?"
Anna froze. For a moment, she just smiled to hide the ache that had surfaced, but her eyes betrayed her. She sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing her daughter's hair away from her face.
"That's a big question," she murmured.
"I want to know," the girl insisted. "Was it Daddy?"
Anna shook her head gently. "No, sweetheart. It was long before I met your father. I was about your age when I met him."
The little girl tilted her head, sensing a story. Anna exhaled, gazing at the rain-streaked window as though it had become a portal into another time.
"His name," she began, "was Michael."
---
Anna had been fifteen when she met Michael, though it felt as if she had known him forever. He lived in the house across the street, a boy with a shock of messy hair and a smile that carried more mischief than the whole neighborhood combined.
He had a habit of folding paper planes and tossing them from his window to hers. At first, she found it annoying, dodging little triangles of paper that ended up on her desk or pillow. But curiosity got the better of her. One evening, she unfolded one and read the shaky letters scrawled inside: Bored. Are you awake?
Against her better judgment, she wrote back. That night began a game that lasted for years — planes flying back and forth, carrying jokes, doodles, little secrets. Each one felt like a thread binding their worlds closer.
Michael wasn't like the other boys. He was bold in ways she wasn't, fearless where she hesitated. He'd climb trees barefoot, challenge bullies twice his size, or wander the town with a curiosity that never seemed to end. And yet, when it was just the two of them, he was gentle. He listened to her ramble about books, her fears of the future, her dreams of painting. He teased her, yes, but it was the kind of teasing that left her smiling long after.
One summer afternoon, as cicadas screamed in the trees, they sat on the roof of his garage, legs dangling, sipping cheap sodas. He tossed a crumpled plane at her, grinning. She opened it and read: I like you.
Her heart stuttered. She looked up at him, but he was staring hard at the sky, cheeks red.
"You're an idiot," she whispered, but she couldn't stop smiling.
From that day forward, something changed. Their walks stretched longer, their laughter softer. Sometimes their hands brushed and neither pulled away. At the county fair, when fireworks lit the night sky, Michael dared to kiss her cheek, quick and clumsy, but it made her whole body burn. She had never felt so alive.
She thought they had forever.
---
The autumn came with sharp winds and whispers of illness. Michael's absence from school stretched from days to weeks. At first, Anna thought he was faking sick to skip exams — it was so like him. But then his mother came to her door, eyes swollen, voice trembling.
He was in the hospital. Something rare, something cruel.
Anna visited him as often as she could, though the sterile walls and the smell of antiseptic always made her shiver. Michael tried to keep his old grin, cracking jokes about the nurses and pretending to fold planes out of his hospital forms. But the strength in his hands was fading, and each time she left, her chest ached with the fear that he might vanish before the next visit.
One evening, as the sun bled red through the blinds, he handed her a folded plane. His fingers trembled as he pressed it into her palm.
"Don't open it yet," he whispered.
She promised she wouldn't. They talked until his voice grew weak, until his eyelids fluttered closed. She kissed his forehead — her first real kiss, though he didn't stir. It would also be her last.
Michael didn't wake the next morning.
---
Anna paused, her voice breaking. Her daughter's eyes were round and glistening, clutching the blanket tight.
"What was in the paper plane?" she asked in a small voice.
Anna smiled sadly, reaching into the drawer of her bedside table. She pulled out a faded, creased paper plane, its edges frayed with time. Carefully, she unfolded it, revealing the shaky handwriting inside.
It read: If I don't get better… don't cry. Just promise me you'll live enough for both of us. I love you.
Anna pressed the note to her chest. "I never told him I loved him back," she whispered. "I thought we had more time. But I've carried those words with me every day since."
The little girl's lips quivered. "Do you still miss him?"
"Every day," Anna admitted, brushing away a tear. "But missing him doesn't hurt the way it used to. Now it feels like… like he's part of me, guiding me, reminding me how precious love is, even if it doesn't last."
The rain had stopped. The room was quiet, holding only the steady rhythm of a mother's heartbeat and the soft breathing of a child who understood just a little more about life than she had the day before.
Anna kissed her daughter's forehead. "Now go to sleep, sweetheart. Tomorrow is waiting. And we must live enough for both of us."
As she turned off the light, Anna glanced once more at the paper plane on her nightstand. Time had worn it thin, but the memory of that boy — her first love, her tragedy — remained as sharp as ever.
And in that silent moment, she whispered into the dark, "I love you too, Michael."